


John Versus the Sex Demon

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, I Don't Even Know, M/M, The minimal plot is just an excuse for porn, accidental feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: Of all the ways John had envisioned he might meet his end in Afghanistan, being fucked to death by a succubus wasn’t high on the list. One minute his unit was being ambushed, the next he was waking up in only his pants, shackled to an uncomfortable bed in some mad scientist’s laboratory with a bloody tall man with wings and a massive stiffie looming over him.(AKA "John is kidnapped, Sherlock is an incubus, and it's all just an excuse for porn.")





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the ways John had envisioned he might meet his end in Afghanistan, being fucked to death by a succubus wasn’t high on the list. One minute his unit was being ambushed, the next he was waking up in only his pants, shackled to an uncomfortable bed in some mad scientist’s laboratory with a bloody tall man with wings and a massive stiffie looming over him.

“Incubus,” the man said.

John closed his eyes and opened them again. Nope, still there. Still stark naked.

“Succubi are female.” The man paced, three tight steps and back again in the tiny space the room allowed. “Incubi are the corresponding male sexual demons. The erection goes with the territory. Gender of the human isn’t relevant to the title, although I’m not surprised the distinction isn’t as well-known as it used to be. Unfortunately--” he grimaced at the wall next to the bed, which John belatedly realized was covered in painted runes of some sort “--someone must have been doing their research. You may call me Sherlock, by the way. No, I know, you’re Captain John H. Watson. It’s all over your thoughts. What’s the ‘H’ stand for, by the way?”

“Sherlock. Right.” John blinked again. “So you’re a… demon?”

“Incubus, yes. Please do try to keep up.” Sherlock hopped up to crouch at the foot of the bed in one lithe movement, his tail swishing like a cat’s. “I can only read your mind insofar as you’re using language to define your thoughts, though, so I ask again: what does the ‘H’ stand for? You think of yourself using only your middle initial. Fascinating.”

“Oh. Hamish. Um.” _Kidnapped by a bloody sex demon and he wants to know my middle name?_ Somehow, a “come here often?” didn’t seem like quite the right tack to take. _I can’t help but notice you’re naked; nice weather we’re having?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I may not be handcuffed, but it should be obvious I’m a captive here too. A particularly annoying and persistent scientist has spent the last few decades trying to observe and--she hopes--replicate the mechanisms by which incubi feed. Apparently she’s now teamed up with someone who has deeper pockets. No, I’m not planning to assault you, so you can stop panicking now. It’s off-putting.”

“Sorry.” John shuffled himself around until he could sit sideways on the narrow bed and lean against the wall. The manacle around his left wrist left him a few feet of movement--not nearly enough to actually do anything, but at least it was enough to sit up. He tugged at it without much success. His muscle control still felt a bit shaky, but his head was gradually clearing. “So I’m… bait? Lunch?”

“Please,” Sherlock grumbled. “Her runes can keep me here and corporeal, but she can’t force us to fornicate. You were delivered here nearly forty-five minutes ago and I managed to restrain myself from molesting your unconscious form for that long. Captivity is making things more tedious, I’ll grant you, but I can go for several months without feeding. Maintaining a secret and secure facility is expensive. If nothing else, I can simply outlast her… if I don’t die of boredom first.”

That sounded all well and good, but John was going to need a change of venue sometime considerably sooner than several months away. Their room--cell?--didn’t even have a bucket in the corner. If Sherlock and this scientist were determined to get into a standoff, John would certainly starve first. “You can die from boredom?” he asked. “I assumed… I don’t know what I assumed, but I guess it’s been more along the lines of ‘what the actual fucking fuck’ ever since I woke up. So.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up at one corner. “Quite.” He glanced over at the door, over which a single red light was blinking slowly. “On the plus side, her runes are corrupting the new recording equipment as effectively as they’re preventing me from summoning myself elsewhere. There have been workmen in the hallway periodically for the last twelve hours trying to fix it but they haven’t found the problem yet. You, though--any thoughts as to how you’d expect we could escape? As much as I hate to admit it, it’s possible you have some insights into human behavior I lack.”

“Thanks,” John said dryly. “Glad to know I’m useful. What would you do if I weren’t here?”

“Spend the next few weeks defacing the runes until they don’t work properly.” Sherlock rubbed at one with his finger, wincing as he did so. John couldn’t see any difference. “I was only eighteen hours into that when she brought me you, though. Just as well--most of the binding symbols on here are drawn so poorly as to be unusable, and I’d really rather she not realize which ones she got right. They hurt to touch. The big round one there on the far wall, in particular, is giving me a massive headache and I haven’t had any luck rubbing it out.”

John couldn’t help his instinctive glance at Sherlock’s erection. _Surely rubbing one out might do this prat some good--_

“Oh, lord,” Sherlock groaned. “Into that again, are we? Fine, I’ll sum it up, but _only_ because I know her microphones are only picking up static. In short: sexual release lets energy loose, increasing entropy, etcetera. Demons exist to promote chaos. It’s a logical extension. If I stimulate myself manually I’m only changing the values in a closed loop and the total energy involved stays the same. No entropy, no chaos, no dice.”

“And if you… achieve release… with someone else?”

“Euphemisms? Really, John? Fine.” Sherlock sighed. “If I _achieve release_ with a human, it’s… well, I’ve been told it feels similar to what humans experience from pharmaceuticals like cocaine. A significant rush of neurotransmitters, followed by a surge in my abilities. It’s unquestionably addictive, which is why I try not to indulge too often.” He paused, frowning. “You were asking specifically about what would happen to you, though. It’s been a while since I did any rigorous experimentation--again, I’ve cut back--but what I discovered when I was younger was less than encouraging. The wasted energy was almost entirely at the expense of the human, I found.”

 _Well fuck._ John had rather suspected that was the case, given Sherlock’s odd insistence on talking instead of just jumping John’s conveniently-human bones, but the man--demon--was freaking gorgeous. John usually considered himself straight, more or less, but surely he could be forgiven a little fantasizing. And _crap, I forgot already that he can read my mind._

Sherlock tilted his head and his lips twisted into a smirk. “I’m flattered,” he said aloud. “And I’m not _trying_ to read your mind; you’re being rather loud and the runes are causing a mental echo in here. For what it’s worth, I find you objectively good-looking as well.”

“Ah… thanks?”

“I’m not known for giving compliments. Take it at face value.” Sherlock hopped backward off the bed and started pacing again, his tail lashing to and fro as he walked. “You’re right, though,” he mused. “I can go indefinitely without food or water, but your body is flimsier than mine. You’d have trouble after only a few days, right?”

“Without water? Yeah,” John answered. “It’ll get uncomfortable lot sooner than that if I don’t want to piss in a corner somewhere, though. And if I stay chained to this bloody bed. At least she let me keep my pants on.”

Sherlock waved that objection away as he paced more, muttering to himself. “Hasn’t provided any of… assuming the human’s needs won’t need to be met, then… if only I could… _argh!”_ He stopped suddenly and grabbed a double handful of his curly hair, tugging hard. “Have I mentioned I hate these godforsaken runes?”

John huffed. “Suppose I could always try pissing on the wall, then--see if I can wash that big round one off? Getting dehydrated won’t help with that, I’m sure, but since your scientist friend didn’t even leave me a bucket…”

“The Woman isn’t my friend,” Sherlock growled. “I don’t _have_ friends.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“Stop feeling sorry for me. Or if you must, feel sorry because of my splitting headache instead.”

 _Berk._ John rolled so he was kneeling where the pillow had been, then put the pillow back into his lap and gestured Sherlock closer. “Shut up and get over here, then. I’ll see what I can do.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and fixed John with a long, haughty stare, but he came back to the bed and eventually flopped face-down with his head in John’s lap. His tail stopped lashing and went limp the moment John threaded his fingers through those dark curls and pressed. “ _Johnnnmmmm,_ ” he breathed. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“My girlfriend in uni used to get terrible migraines,” John explained quietly. “Scalp massages always helped her feel better. Been a while, and I’ve never tried it on a demon while being chained to a bedpost, but I think I haven’t forgotten how.”

“Don’t underestimate the value of bondage,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow. “You enjoy a little bondage during sex--and no, I wasn’t reading your mind, you were practically broadcasting it. _Ooooh._ There, right there.”

John _did_ enjoy incorporating a bit of kink in bed, which of course the bloody berk plucked out of his brain like it was a casual talking point. If it hadn’t been for the pillow and the dubious barrier of John’s grey Y-fronts in the way, Sherlock’s forehead would have been mashed up against a rather pertinent part of John’s anatomy. The git probably knew that, too.

Sherlock laughed, a chuckle which transformed into a groan.

“What if we did, though?” John asked several minutes later. Sherlock was practically boneless in his lap, wings and tail long since having gone limp in near-comatose pleasure. “I mean, I’ve been listening, but I haven’t heard even the sounds of a guard outside our door. Do you think she assumes you’ll just… give in, eventually?”

“Prob’ly.” Sherlock managed a near-motionless shrug. “D’you want to fuck me? Or for me to fuck you?”

 _That was the question now, wasn’t it?_ John finished the scalp massage with one last, long caress through Sherlock’s soft hair, then twisted as best he could with an incubus lying on his lap and leaned back against the wall again. “I do,” he admitted, “but that’s probably my idiotic risk-taking streak talking. That and--like I said before--you’re bloody gorgeous. You’ve probably already picked up that I’ve never done this with a man. If I’m going to die anyway, though? I’d rather get one last good shag, especially if it might help you get out of here. I assume that recharging your magic demon powers would help?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock roused himself slowly, blinking up at John for a full minute before sitting up and facing him. “Might make it more difficult for you, though,” he pointed out. “Humans tend to be lethargic afterward.”

“For how long?”

“I’ve never stayed until my partner awakened, but possibly for several hours.” He grimaced. “Then again I usually don’t see humans outside of their dreams, so…”

“So you don’t know, is what you’re saying.”

“It’s never been relevant.”

“I guess we should wait a bit and see what this scientist woman wants, then,” John decided. “Then we can sort out what to do next.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CW below]

Quite a while later, a small flap of wall near the door folded outward. An unseen person quickly slid in a tray of food, then the flap closed again with a click. John had been dozing and lifted his eyes groggily, but Sherlock was still pacing. He frowned at the tray, frowned at John, then rolled his eyes and retrieved it.

“Don’t look,” Sherlock murmured as he set the tray on the bed where John could reach it, “but the light on the video camera flickered and stayed on about twenty minutes ago. I suspect The Woman may have found a way around the runes’ magnetic interference. I’m almost positive the audio is still white noise, but assume she has a visual on us.”

He didn’t put his hand over his mouth to whisper, but John noticed that Sherlock did have his back squarely to the camera before he spoke. Lip-reading a possibility, then. _Wonderful._ “Anything we can do about it?” John murmured back, careful to look casual while deliberately keeping Sherlock’s wing between him and the little red light he wasn’t supposed to look at. “I’m not particularly an exhibitionist.”

There was one notable exception to that, a sassy French acquaintance named Elise who enjoyed being fucked with her pert breasts pressed firmly against the window of her second-storey flat while she and John both watched the busy street below, but that didn’t make a “the exception proves the rule” situation. Although Sherlock--of course--plucked the memory straight from John’s head and smirked knowingly.

“Shut up,” John grumbled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

 _“You_ were thinking it, actually,” Sherlock countered. “Don’t fantasize so loudly if you don’t want me to hear.” His expression sobered. “Speaking of hearing, though… could you lean against the wall about half a metre to your left? There’s an oblong rune there at around hip height for you--the one in silver with the red inside. See what you can do to smudge it with your lower back while you eat. You’re starving.”

John casually sidled along the wall, trying to look like he was just shifting his weight. “Hard to believe I was being shot at just this morning,” he said aloud, partly for the camera’s benefit. “I’m still not sure whether someone’s trying to kill me or not, but at least I get a last meal before I go.”

The tray was clearly intended to be comfort food for a Brit: bangers and mash, warm and aromatic, and a lemon tart on the side that made John’s mouth water. There was only one fork. _Do incubi even eat?_

“We can,” Sherlock said, “but it’s not necessary. Our digestive system is vestigial and we don’t absorb anything from physical food.” Sherlock poked at the mashed potatoes, then licked the buttery glob off his finger with a quick swipe of his sinfully agile tongue. He let out a low growl. “Sodium gamma-hydroxybutyrate sprinkled liberally over the top of this. I’m not surprised. The tart is fine; I can smell that from here. Eat it and we’ll pretend to share the rest.”

It took John longer than it should have to place the chemical. _Crystalline GHB?_ he thought distinctly. _Lip-read THAT, scientist lady._

Sherlock snorted.

_She thinks my issue with this whole kidnapping thing is that I wouldn’t want to sleep with you and have to be drugged into compliance? I mean, is she BLIND?_

“Here--the pudding is less likely to irritate your stomach after whatever you were dosed with,” Sherlock said with his head turned for peak camera visibility.

_Or--fuck. You’re not biologically obligated to molest me in my sleep, are you?_

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “I haven’t eaten in four days,” he said loudly. “Mind if I share your supper?” He ducked his head. “Rest assured, John,” he murmured, “that is _not_ my intention. It won’t harm me--just go with it for now.”

“Happy to share,” John replied in answer to the part of the conversation Sherlock was letting their mysterious scientist lip-read. “I’m not that hungry anyway.” It was a blatant lie, but the lemon tart turned out to be just as delicious as the smell had promised. Sherlock methodically ate both sausages and most of the mashed potatoes. He didn’t look like he was enjoying them, particularly, but he did pause and hand John the fork frequently so they could give the appearance of sharing the tainted food even though John never let any get past his lips. Sherlock finally put the tray with the empty plates on the floor where it had first appeared and climbed back onto the bed to sprawl over John’s legs.

“Scuffing up the rune behind you won’t take out her camera completely,” Sherlock said, muffled by the sheets, “but it should make the footage grainy again. Enough she can’t make out details, since you’re not an exhibitionist. It’s bothering you.” He fluttered his wings up and then flat again, stretching them the way most people might stretch their arms while yawning. The movement was oddly endearing.

“Mmm.” _Why didn’t you do it before now?_ John thought at him.

“Hurts if I touch the real ones.” Sherlock did yawn, then, laying his head sideways on John’s knee. “Oh, damn. I’m tired but not sleepy, if that makes sense. You?”

“Um… same. I think we could both fit, if you don’t mind your wings and tail sort of hanging off the mattress. Wish she’d given us a blanket, or at least a sheet.”

“I can do you one better.” Sherlock grinned, quick and promising, then clambered up over John’s body until John was knocked flat on his back and Sherlock was pressed chest-to-knees above him. Black wings folded close around the two of them, providing negligible warmth but much-appreciated privacy. John wriggled. Sherlock’s erection, which had flagged while they ate but never entirely went away, was poking him in the thigh. “Comfortable enough?” Sherlock asked.

The git was a good stone lighter than John had expected. Maybe his bones were all hollow like a bird’s; that would explain the height and the wingspan. “Fine,” John hummed. “Don’t know what time it is, but g’night. I don’t suppose the light in here turns off.” _I’m up for actual sleep or for fucking you senseless, either way. Figured we’re play-acting first, though?_

Sherlock buried his smile in John’s neck. “Give it five minutes,” he murmured. “Five for feigning a reaction to the drug and then however long you like for sex. I’m looking forward to this, and not just in the hopes of recharging my powers.”

 _I would have assumed sex would feel like a job for you by now_ , John thought. _I get the impression you’re a lot older than I am._

“Only by a hundred years or so.” Sherlock sighed happily and shifted his weight so his cock pressed a bit higher, now brushing John’s bollocks through the cotton of his pants. “I can’t remember the last time I did this for pleasure, though. Or outside the dreamscape. Usually I control the entire encounter and the human merely provides the body and the venue. Dull.”

“Yes, well.” John tugged Sherlock upward the last little bit so he could capture those nimble lips in a guerrilla kiss. “Nuts to whoever’s watching--I want to fuck you. Now. I want to take advantage of the fuzzy recording equipment while we can, because I don’t think I could do this without telling you at length about how gorgeous you look.”

Sherlock’s expression of surprise was interrupted by John’s second kiss, longer and much more thorough than the first. He held back only a moment before melting into John’s body, bracketing John’s face with both hands and kissing back with an odd mixture of technique and self-consciousness. _Not as experienced at this_ , John surmised, _but a bloody quick study_.

“Not with kissing, no.” Sherlock undulated his body in a way that had John panting already. “The rest… well.” He sat back on his heels, then stripped John’s pants off with more grace than John had ever managed. “I find myself reluctant to attempt anything involving my powers, not with the runes interfering, but that still leaves plenty of options. For example--feel.”

He caught John’s hand and brought it to his cock. John sucked in a breath at the feel of… _lube?_

“No ejaculate,” Sherlock explained with a sly smile, “but my penis does emit a naturally slick fluid suitable for easing friction. Useful where it is, or--” he tugged John’s hand back further, to brush against his perineum “--for lubricating my own body. My excretory system is as vestigial as my digestive system and as rarely used, so no need to be concerned. Go ahead; see how you like it.”

John liked it already. Very much. Sherlock’s twitching tail was an excellent barometer of how much each particular touch and caress aroused him: lazy loops for steady strokes up and down his shaft, lashing sideways when John caught Sherlock’s nipple gently between his teeth, actually wrapping itself around John’s wrist when he finally loaded his index finger up with lubricant and slid it between Sherlock’s arsecheeks.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Sherlock breathed. He jumped when John finally got the right angle and discovered that yes, sex demons do have prostates. “Thought you said you’d never done this with a man before?”

“I’m a doctor,” John explained. “Although this isn’t usually how check-ups go.”

“I imagine not.” Sherlock straightened his spine and wriggled his hips to impale himself further on John’s finger. “So this is somewhat new for both of us, then. Interesting.”

_Good._

John withdrew to jerk Sherlock off a few more strokes, then offered two lubricated fingers. Sherlock sat on them and immediately threw his head back. “I’m ready,” he announced.

“I’m not.” John glanced down at his own stupidly hard cock. Achieving an erection wasn’t the issue; the issue was that he’d come in two seconds flat if Sherlock’s warm arse felt anywhere near as good on John’s prick as it did on his fingers. “Let me enjoy the moment, okay?”

Sherlock whined. Literally whined. He kept his hands to himself, though, which allowed John the time he needed to think of unsexy things (autopsies, shrapnel injuries, walking in on Harry and her then-girlfriend naked on their parents’ bed _oh god I’ll never recover from that one_ ) and get himself back under control. _I want to commit every moment of this to memory_ , he thought with precise mental diction _. Every sound you make, every facial expression, every twitch of your bloody magnificent wings. I hope everyone you’ve ever been with tells you how goddamned gorgeous you are, because it would be a crime for you to go through life not seeing yourself like I see you right now._

“Ngh,” Sherlock said. His eyes were wide, like John’s little mental monologue was a shock to him. “Th… thank you?” His wings did flutter slightly before tucking back out of the way against his shoulderblades. “I don’t… this isn’t usually reciprocal. I induce the human to achieve orgasm and I go.”

“Seriously?”

Sherlock dropped his chin to his chest. “You’re surprised. I just meant, this is nice. Sharing this together. Not having to script everything myself.”

 _Fuck_. “I’ll show you ‘nice,’” John vowed, and braced his feet on the mattress so Sherlock was jolted forward to rest that beautiful arse against John’s thighs. The new position put John’s shins and Sherlock’s wings in the way of the camera again, which was good, but nowhere near as important as how it neatly lined Sherlock’s hole up over John’s cock. “I want you to ride me,” John murmured. “Touch as much of me as you want with those bloody elegant hands. Use your wings for balance. I want to see you fucking yourself to pieces on my dick and watch those gorgeous dark curls bounce as you do it. You don’t have to script a damn thing because all you need to do is to let me show you how ‘ _nice’_ sex can be.”

“Yes. Oh god, yes _._ ” Sherlock lowered himself onto John’s cock, his own legs literally trembling from the effort to go slow. “Finally. Feels so good.”

John rolled his hips with a small _pop_ , impaling Sherlock the last few crucial millimetres so they were skin against skin as much as physically possible. Sherlock’s was much paler than his own, even where the Afghan sun hadn’t had a chance to tan John golden-brown. The contrast was striking, and even more so against the dark backdrop of Sherlock’s hair and wings and--oh Christ, his tail. His agile tail.

“You like that,” Sherlock said. “The thought of using my tail as part of this.” He twined his tail around John’s thigh as he said it, and John couldn’t suppress his loud groan. “Tell me what you want,” Sherlock urged.

“Is it sensitive?”

_“Very.”_

“Oh god.” John sucked in a breath and nudged his hips upward again to get another moan from Sherlock. “Is it long enough to wrap all the way around your cock?”

Sherlock’s brows drew together. “You know, I’m not sure.” He slid a hand up John’s thigh and manually tugged his tail around to curl in front of him. It was, indeed, long enough. John reached up and trapped the loop of it against the base of Sherlock’s shaft. Demon tails were apparently long, dark, nearly hairless, and smooth except for a bulbous tip at the end. _Like a pointy, bendy cock permanently attached right above his arse._

Sherlock frowned. John barely restrained a giggle. He smeared his palm over Sherlock’s glans and transferred the resulting slick to the coil of tail, though, and Sherlock’s gasp suggested John’s stray thought was forgiven.

“Wank yourself with it,” John urged him. “Stroke up and down and I’ll work the tip of your cock. I want to see how sensitive and agile it really is. _Fuck_ , you’ve got a literal tail.”

“Haven’t done anything like this in-- _oh!_ \--forever,” Sherlock breathed. “ _John, don’t stop!_ ”

John didn’t. Eventually he managed to get them into a complicated little rhythm where Sherlock raised and lowered himself while twisting his tail around his shaft and balls and groping every part of John’s torso he could reach, while John fucked up into Sherlock’s hot arse and kept a steady pressure on the head of Sherlock’s leaking cock. Incubi might not have been able to shoot loads of spunk like John was trying very hard to not do yet, but the copious amount of lubricant Sherlock produced made everything oh-so-much better. It was hard to tell how much of the sheen on Sherlock’s skin was sweat, lube, or a combination of the two. John was incredibly tempted to flip them both over and see how much Sherlock liked being pounded into the mattress, but the logistics of wings and tail and never having fucked someone with a penis before kept him from trying it.

Instead, he captured Sherlock’s hands one at a time and thrust them behind Sherlock’s back. “Grab your wrists and keep them there,” he commanded. “Wings for balance.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Can I touch the base of my tail?”

“Does that turn you on?”

A moan and a sigh were John’s answer.

“Go for it, then,” he said. “You said it’s usually about the human? Well I want to feel you shuddering apart around me. Let me do that for you, Sherlock.” He let go of Sherlock’s cock and gripped his tail just below the tip instead. The change let him gently slide the now-slick loop of tail along Sherlock’s cock. Tugging forward and back, toward the base and now further out toward the tip, massaging the agile skin as he went. Sherlock clearly wasn’t lying about his tail being sensitive, because he reacted to every pass with a shiver and a clench of his arse muscles. It felt _amazing_ \--enough that John had to grit his teeth and remind himself how much he wanted to see Sherlock get off first. It was just as well John didn’t need to censor his thoughts, because he sure as hell wasn’t in any state to control them.

 _So gorgeous, Sherlock,_ he babbled inside his head. _Your eyes closed and your head tipped back so I can see that sinfully long column of your throat. I know you said you can only read words, not my mental images, but this is so far beyond words I can’t possibly do the image justice. The way your thighs flex as you raise and lower yourself on my cock, the shift of your muscles as your wings flutter and your stomach tightens in anticipation. The breathy sighs when I get the angle just right and graze your prostate. Even the feel of your arse against my legs as we move. And your tail, fuck. Your TAIL. It’s an erogenous zone all by itself, isn’t it? I’m wanking your tail as your tail wanks you and you can’t predict it, can’t predict any of it, because I’m not some human who’s helplessly asleep. I’m not asleep and I’m not going to let myself forget a goddamned second of this because You. Are. Beautiful._

Sherlock cried out and came. His arse clenched deliciously around John’s own cock, milking him until he couldn’t hold back anymore and came with the force of a small supernova. _Fuck_.

If they survived this, John’s cardiovascular system would never be the same.

Some amount of untangled limbs later, Sherlock was sprawled over John and they were both probably going to be stuck together if they stayed there any longer. The only thing moving was Sherlock’s tail, curled around the underside of John’s knee and gently stroking up and down along his calf.

“Did that help?” John finally asked.

Sherlock hummed and buried his face into the pillow next to John’s ear.

“You were right about me being sleepy, but this is how I usually feel after good sex. Not that anything I’ve done before counts as ‘good’ in comparison to that.” John couldn’t keep the dopey smile off his face. “Don’t think _anything_ could compare to that.”

“I don’t disagree,” Sherlock murmured. “That was a singular experience, John Hamish Watson. Thank you.”

“Did it do anything, powers-wise?”

Sherlock squeezed John’s leg with his tail. “Look around,” he said quietly. “I deleted the runes, your manacle is gone, and the recording equipment is now literally smoking. Whatever it may have captured, the data are now corrupted for good.”

John shifted his head enough to look at the opposite wall. It was bare. So clean the paint on the cinderblocks was was nearly shining, in fact. “Damn.”

Sherlock chuckled. “It’s possible to leave when you’re ready, now. The door is unlocked and all the other humans in this facility are deeply asleep. _Including_ The Woman.”

“You can do that? Of course you can do that. You can… _damn._ Sorry.” John dragged his non-slippery hand through his hair. “For some reason my brain is totally fine with the idea of the best shag of my life being with a mysterious demon-man with wings and a tail who invades people’s dreams, but you using your powers in other ways doesn’t compute.”

Sherlock’s snort eloquently encapsulated how he felt about _that._

“Yes, fine. Good.” John groaned and shoved at Sherlock’s bony chest until Sherlock consented to let him up. “As much as I really would like to conk out with you as a blanket, I’m guessing this is my chance to get out of here. Are you going to, I don’t know, teleport somewhere?”

Sherlock fixed John with a hard-to-read look. “I can, if you’d rather I leave you alone,” he said slowly. “I get that none of this was anything you asked for--”

“Oh, if you’re going to be like that about it… shut up.” John tugged the tall git down far enough to plant a decisive kiss on his lips. “After what we just did? I’d rather we glue ourselves to each other’s sides and attempt a round two as soon as we can find a bed not owned by a maniacal mad scientist woman. Might be a bit impractical, though, so I’ll settle for getting out of here and knowing you’re going to feature in every good dream I have from now on.” _Suppose I have to be realistic--this was never going to last._ John was surprised at how much that realization hurt.

Sherlock opened his mouth like he was about to say something, then closed it again. He blinked a few times. Then he slowly, cautiously, reached out and took John’s hand. John squeezed in reassurance. “I can’t teleport us both,” Sherlock said softly, “but I’ll walk out with you.”

They exited the compound together, holding hands like giddy teenagers. Sherlock kept looking at their joined hands and then staring at John, the same blank expression on his face. John, for his part, squeezed Sherlock’s hand and flashed him a smile every time.

“We’re not in Afghanistan anymore,” John realized when the dirt track they were following intersected a gravel road. “I’m not fluent in Pashto, but that sign isn’t it.”

“Punjabi,” Sherlock said. “We’re over the border in Pakistan. Well over, judging from the languages the people around us are thinking in. Nobody nearby,” he explained, “but I can ‘hear’ thoughts for quite a distance when I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

Sherlock turned back to John and winked. “You need reminding already?”

John would have been perfectly happy to tackle Sherlock and get a round two in right there in the middle of the road, but they were interrupted by the sound of a truck. A nice one, John realized as it came into view. Just as he was realizing he was still in his pants and Sherlock had bloody _wings and a tail_ , Sherlock snapped his fingers and suddenly the two of them were dressed in loose-fitting trousers and shirts similar to what John had seen the locals wearing in Afghanistan. Sherlock’s wings and tail were nowhere to be seen.

The truck slowed to a stop in front of them and a young woman opened the passenger door.

“Doctor Watson,” she declared. “I’m to drive you back to base.”

“Who--”

“An ally,” Sherlock said over John’s half-formed question. “She works for my brother and thus probably represents the safest possible way for you to get back to your post.”

John blinked up at him. “Are you coming?” he finally asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t. It’s… complicated.”

“Oh.” Some part of John wanted to send the woman with the truck on, wanted to wander through this foreign country where he had zero money and didn’t speak the language as long as he had Sherlock by his side, but a more logical segment of his brain pointed out that was a stupid idea. And yet.

“John.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “While I cannot accompany you back across the border to where you belong, I have other methods of travel available to me. If you’re amenable, I would like to visit you from time to time.”

“Actually physically visit, or…” John waved vaguely.

Sherlock frowned. “Not physically, not while you’re sharing a communal sleeping space, but maybe in the future? If you’re still interested?”

If he was still interested? _You’re a bloody idiot if you believe I’m going to get over you anytime soon_ , John thought at him. _Of course I want you. In any way I can. I’ve known you less than a day but I do know that. I can’t say what the future will bring, but I want you in it._

“221B Baker Street.” Sherlock’s posture was perfect, but John could easily imagine his tail twitching with the force of trying to keep the rest of him calm. “My flat in London. Knock on the door and ask for me; Mrs. Hudson will let you in.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You keep a flat in London?”

“For when I’m not working, yes.” Sherlock made eye contact and held it. “Come there when you’re able and I’ll be back with you before the night has passed. Actually physically back. I don’t… I’ve never sought out someone’s company before, John Watson, but I find myself craving yours.”

 _Me too, you berk._ John took Sherlock’s hand and silently squeezed it one last time. _Tell me I’m insane for wanting you, but it won’t make me want you any less._

John’s last view of Sherlock was of him standing on the side of that gravel road in Pakistan, silently watching the truck drive away, once again naked, his tail hanging down limply and tracing lines in dirt.

***

Six months later, John got shot. The attending nurse was startled enough by his first words post-surgery that he added them to John’s chart.

_Patient John Watson_

_Pt took approx 2 hrs to revive full consciousness after anesthesia. Commented “Finally; it’s about damn time; Sherlock I’m coming.” Fell asleep again soon after. Vitals normal. Check dosages?_

In his sleep, John dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CW: mention of dubcon elements (none of which come to pass and which aren't instigated by Sherlock or John). Mention of drug use.]
> 
> So! I'm stopping this one here, but I'd be happy to link if anyone feels like using this as a jumping-off point for more human-incubus porn :-) On a separate note, several elements of this were inspired by https://archiveofourown.org/works/449439 and y'all need to read it if you haven't already.


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